


"You beloved are"

by Snowfilly1



Series: Valentine's Oneshots 2020 [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley the Starmaker, First Time, Fluff, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, ineffable valentines 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22548985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowfilly1/pseuds/Snowfilly1
Summary: Aziraphale talks to him through it; that’s what Crowley remembers the most afterwards, through all the days and years and centuries which he treasures the memory of their first time.Aziraphale is good with words; Crowley has to borrow them from others.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Valentine's Oneshots 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1631470
Comments: 17
Kudos: 92
Collections: Ineffable Valentines 2020





	"You beloved are"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaydreamingofDragons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaydreamingofDragons/gifts).



> For the Valentines Challenge 'Poetry' prompt.

Aziraphale talks to him through it; that’s what Crowley remembers the most afterwards, through all the days and years and centuries which he treasures the memory of their first time. Aziraphale who makes words into a ward, a spell, as they make love; who makes sure Crowley is not afraid or hurting when everything in him calls out to be. 

Aziraphale who turns words into gems and jewels and wonders, who gives them as careless gifts to Crowley even as he gives other gifts with his lips and hands and body. 

He doesn’t need to say ‘be not afraid’ because he says it with other words. 

He calls Crowley beautiful and good and mine. Worship and praise and blasphemy all jumbled together. 

He can’t reciprocate, not then. The act itself is too demanding and what good is he with words, anyway? They get lost in his mind, get lost along his too sharp teeth and forked tongue and turn out into bitten off consonants, stars separated from their constellations. 

So he answers as best as he can with everything else he has, and it must be enough, because Aziraphale kisses him and says ‘Crowley, I love you.’

Demon that he is, he was a starmaker before. He knows the music that there was before anything else, the sorrowless singing in places that were empty; he has remembered that music every day of his life. 

Aziraphale, in four words, turns the music into a song. 

It plays anew on every nerve he has. Star bright, nebula bright. And Aziraphale gives him that as if it is nothing; his white curls a sweaty mess on Crowley’s black pillows, his body looped and coiled around Crowley’s as though he’d taken on a serpent aspect of his own, his hand folded carefully around the sharpness of Crowley’s jawline. 

They are the simplest and most profound words, and he cannot say them in return, not just yet. He shudders, in his memories, knowing how long it took him to find the courage, but knowing that Aziraphale understood why. 

But other people have given him words in the past. He pulls one lot of words from memory; clasps Aziraphale’s hand in both of his and guides it down to his chest. Lays it flat on his useless heart, and lets the angel feel the beat of blood that neither of them need, still racing from actions that neither of them should be interested in; to share the humanness of it all. 

“You, beloved…are all the gardens I have ever gazed at, longing.”

Sweet borrowed words; he watches them strike home, watches emotions he can’t yet name strike in Aziraphale’s eyes. 

Watches an angel reach out and guide him, demon, back along the way to Eden.

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley's quote is from 'You Who Never Arrived,' by Rainer Maria Rilke.


End file.
